T
hat vicinity commonly referred to as the “Mexican Ghetto” occupied about a four-block radius at the very edge of South Philly. Yet the dilapidated homes and the dearth of any foliage still stood in stark contrast to South Philly proper. There, the surprisingly well-manicured Little League field, resembling a miniature professional park with its premium night lighting and corporate sponsorship banners, was set off from the middle-class, brick row homes, like a deity of antiquity. It was the ultimate tribute to America’s favorite pastime—baseball—still as time-honored as ever in the retro neighborhood, which was Italian American South Philly. The Vito’s Pizza logo, consisting of a caricatured likeness of Vito Armani sporting a rap-star-sized gold chain and cross pendant, basked in the glory of the premier, center location along the outfield metal fence. The fence was capped off with the super-high golf range netting, a blatant zoning violation, yet one that made perfect sense in that urban setting, where foul balls and homers could conceivably land atop the hood of one of the new Caddys or Vettes parked illegally along the perimeter.
As Hunter passed along the outside of the field on foot, he was amused by the sight of the netting, which spoke volumes about the true South Philadelphians. They marched to the beat of their own drum, and there wasn’t a damn thing even the most prominent outsider could do about it. And it was certainly no different for Mayor Valentine. Hunter was pretty sure it was that same hubris that had prompted Vito to place the controversial sign in his restaurant’s window in the first place.
Unwelcome stares beat down upon Hunter as he moved into the mean streets within the Mexican section. A hydrant had been converted into a makeshift sprinkler times a hundred and was the major source of entertainment for the dozen or so small children who laughed as they cooled down during the unseasonable heat wave. A crew of Mexican gang-banger types were kicking it curbside, their long-sleeve button-downs playing into the cliché, the top button fastened as the rest remained undone, forming an upside down “V” pattern. A few sported wife-beaters, which revealed massive amounts of body art and prison free-weight builds. Even the elderly, bearing amused grins and seated in tattered beach chairs along the sidewalk, aimed uninviting glances in his direction.
After several knocks at the address he had for Ruben Hayek, the freshly painted coral-blue door opened. An intoxicating aroma of old-world Mexican spices and flavors escaped along with the intense rhythm of Shakira.
A twenty-something, goateed man dressed in a starched white guayabera shirt with neat, shiny black hair worn in a classic part answered the door. “May I help you?”
Hunter assumed he had the wrong house, having expected someone to greet him in Spanish and pretend not to understand a word he said, including the name “Ruben Hayek.” “Yes. Thanks. I was wondering if I could speak with Ruben Hayek.”
“Ruben’s not back from work. We’re expecting him pretty shortly, though.” The man suddenly looked concerned. “Why? Is everything all right?”
“Yes…I mean I don’t know.” Hunter cut right to the chase. “I’m an attorney, and I’m representing the city in the Vito’s case.”
“Ah. OK. We’re glad you decided to reach out.”
Really?
Hunter was caught entirely off guard at this point. “Of course. It’s vital that I talk with Ruben about the incident.”
“The trial’s Thursday, right?”
“Exactly,” replied Hunter, pleased to know the trial date was on the household radar, which meant there was a distinct possibility Ruben actually planned on attending.
“And you say you’re on Ruben’s side?” he asked with a slight tinge of distrust, aimed more at the legal profession in general than at Hunter.
“Yes.”
The man smiled, revealing perfectly straight white teeth, and invited Hunter in with a hospitable wave of the hand.
Nearly a half hour had passed, and Hunter was still sitting in the intimate and stylish living room. The space was a mélange of wooden Mexican furniture finished in cobalt blue and rust orange hues, contemporary stainless-steel accessories, and vibrant floor rugs. An overflowing stream of family photographs in silver frames ran over the thick, wood fireplace mantle. The walls were covered with gallery-worthy modernist oils on canvas. The clamoring of pots and pans was audible from the kitchen, presumably the sounds of the grandmother or mother in the throes of crafting a traditional Sunday feast.
Hunter leaned forward in the distressed brown leather sofa and set a wine goblet atop the cocktail table. The man who had greeted him, Isaac Bacardi, seated himself in a cushioned chair across from Hunter, slowly twirling the stem of a nearly empty wine glass in contemplation. An attractive, heavy-set woman with longish black curls and who appeared to be in her late twenties sat on the sofa to Hunter’s right. She wore form-fitting designer denim jeans and a black tank top. She was barefoot, her well-pedicured nails covered in a fiery red polish, which matched that of her manicure.
Frida Hayek, Ruben Hayek’s sister, exuded passion as she finished articulating her point. “I just think it’s ridiculous that people don’t see how third world this country is. Despite what Americans want to believe, they’re just willing to sit back and watch one another die. Like with New Orleans and Hurricane Katrina…”
It was obvious that Isaac was growing impatient. “Okay, Frida. I’m sure Mr. Gray gets the point. We’re getting off track, though,” he interrupted. By the sound of things, Hunter got the impression they’d come to this crossroads before. “The man came here to discuss the grave problem impacting
all
of us right here in our backyard.”
“Okay, okay, Mr. Serious. Always so uptight,” said Frida, twisting the knife a bit as she reached for her wine. “And speak for yourself about what impacts me or doesn’t,” she lobbed as an afterthought.
“It’s your flesh and blood, for God’s sake, Frida.”
“I don’t need
you
to tell me that, Isaac.” Her hostile tone and glare exposed a much deeper rift between the two. “I understand. Believe me.”
“Then if you understand—” Isaac tried to reason before she cut him off.
“How many times do I have to tell you? A response might do more harm than good. That’s exactly what this Vito person is trying to do. Get a rise just to stir things up. The more controversy, the fatter his wallet gets. That sign is nothing more than a juvenile publicity stunt, if you ask me.” Frida fiddled with her curls nervously as she spoke.
“That very well may be the case. But it certainly doesn’t change the fact that something has to be done. Publicly. He opened the door. It’s up to someone to ensure the degradation and humiliation are stopped. A message has to be sent, Frida, and you know it.” Isaac remained surprisingly composed, despite the emotion that was swirling like a swarm of bees across the cocktail table. “That’s what this gentleman is here to help us do.”
“You honestly think a pig like that will ever stop, Isaac? Or the racists who support him will ever let go of their hate and intolerance? This isn’t the first time Ruben has experienced something like this. And it certainly won’t be his last. It’s just the way it is for
us
.” A sense of tragic defeat infected her words.
“Us? Are you implying I’m not Latino enough to understand?” Isaac had been born in Miami to parents who had defected from Castro’s Cuba. Frida, on the other hand, had been born in Mexico and came to the States with her brother when they were young children. The pathology of the tension was becoming more apparent to Hunter. At some level, Frida questioned Isaac’s ability to empathize with her brother’s plight since he was born a US citizen.
“That’s not what I meant,” replied Frida, wishing she could take back the words spoken out of frustration. But the damage had already been done. She looked away as her intelligent, dark brown eyes welled with tears, letting the wave of emotion subside uneventfully. “I just can’t bear to see Ruben hurt again.” Her words came out tenderly as she gazed apologetically in Isaac’s direction.
“I know. And I won’t let that happen to him,” Isaac assured her with serious conviction.
Frida nodded in agreement, bravely coming to terms with the painful reality. “Okay. Okay.”
Frida’s nervous laugh highlighted the embarrassment as she conveyed a heartfelt yet entirely unnecessary apology to Hunter. Over the years, Hunter had been subjected to a plethora of emotional responses from clients and non-clients alike. All too frequently, the incredible stresses of litigation tended to bring out the worst among its participants. Hunter just chalked it up to that.
The three finally delved in to the particulars of the case, and frankly, Hunter was content to move things along. As crucial as Ruben’s testimony was, not to mention his commitment to being at the trial, Hunter couldn’t wait around much longer. There were too many other things to attend to, not the least of which was finding out who was after him and why. The more he considered it, the more Hunter was convinced there had to be something else to the story. Vito was far too intelligent, despite his public persona, to disrupt the publicity windfall. Sure, winning was important. But the truth of the matter was that an appeal from a loss was in some ways even better.
Indubitably he will try to take his case all the way to the US Supremes.
It came out that Isaac had been with Ruben on the night of the alleged incident. And Hunter was pleasantly surprised by his recounting of the incident, which was highly credible and wildly different from the version being peddled by Vito’s defense team. Frida was good for a few hard-hitting, provocative questions, with the three of them joking about how she’d missed her calling by not going into law. There was no doubt, though, that she was doing exactly what she’d always dreamed of: teaching world history and geography to high school students at South Philadelphia High.
“And no one tell me we have such a
handsome
visitor?”
The flirtatious question, in broken immigrant English, was posed by a little old lady standing before them. Frida, bursting with adoration, introduced her grandmother as
Abi.
“I’m not sure Grandpa would be happy to know you’re checking out other men, Abi,” chided Frida.
“Look but can’t touch,” Abi replied. “That’s the
deal
,” she added, trying to sound young and hip.
Isaac looked at Hunter and arched his dark brow, feigning chaste disapproval of Abi’s fiery ways. Both men smiled in amusement as Abi hobbled over to Frida with her tan, sun-spotted arms outstretched, the layer of fat underneath her triceps shaking like flan. They embraced as if it would be their very last, and then Frida introduced him.
“So are you single, Señor Gray?” asked the old lady, gesturing toward Frida with her weary and thoughtful brown eyes, which had assuredly been alluring many moons ago.
Frida went flush with embarrassment. “Abi, please.”
“Did my Frida tell you she was a teacher?” bragged Abi.
“She did. She’s a lovely young woman,” interjected Hunter. “But unfortunately, I’m committed.” It was undoubtedly more complicated with Sheila, but he figured he’d just leave it at that. “If circumstances were different, though, I’d be lucky to have a chance to date your granddaughter.”
Frida smiled appreciatively.
Abi, even over her disappointment, extended Hunter an invitation to stay for her home-cooked lunch. Neither Frida nor Isaac mentioned why Hunter was even there, which probably meant they’d decided to keep her in the dark. Had it been his grandmother, Hunter would’ve done precisely the same thing. “Has Ruben not come from the job?” asked Abi before she left the room.
Isaac shared a concerned look with Frida, and only Hunter noticed Abi observe it slyly out of the corner of her eye.
She’s shrewd and knows a lot more than she lets on.
“He probably stopped off at the market or something, Abi,” speculated Isaac, more for his own peace of mind than anything else.
“Probably,” chimed in Frida, also trying to allay her grandmother’s concern.
F
rida’s younger brother, Ruben, was a factory worker whose life had been predetermined by precision and predictability. Six days a week, come hell or high water, he made the commute across the Delaware River to Campbell’s Soup’s headquarters, where he worked on a food-packaging line. He was a creature of habit, and for close to eight monotonous years, he’d grown accustomed to working the same shifts at roughly the same times. Isaac said he couldn’t remember the last time Ruben was so late as dread blanketed the room like nuclear fallout. Frida, no longer able to mask the angst, distracted herself by lending a hand in the kitchen. Isaac stayed behind in the living room, manically punching in keys on a cell phone. His countenance resembled a victim in a slasher B-movie hoping and praying futilely right before the fatal blow.
Hunter, queasy with the knowledge that this situation was likely preventable, withdrew into the confines of the narrow hallway to check in on Andy. A blown-up black-and-white photograph of Frida, hardly recognizable as a rail-thin girl in her teens, greeted him. She was perfectly giddy, beaming for the camera, and locked in a sibling embrace with a gentle-looking boy, who gazed out at the camera through slightly detached, sad eyes. Hunter knew right away it was Ruben. The image brought back memories of his own childhood, when his older sister was still his protector as she elatedly embarked upon adolescence amid the innocence of their youths. Tragically, though, that purity had been displaced by the knowledge of good and evil. His sister’s fall from grace occurred when she resorted to hard drugs, no longer able to cope with the realities of daily life and in desperate need of a life purpose. Her eventual decision to pursue acting, a fait accompli, was clearly discernible as self-justification for a life that had been so recklessly squandered.
After several minutes of hospital propaganda on hold in the form of perversely cheery advertising for cancer treatment and joint replacement therapies, the commoditization of medicine at its finest, a catatonic voice finally came on the line. The voice, barely recognizable, belonged to Andy’s wife. Hollow and in shock, she could barely get up the energy to talk. Although it seemed that Andy was out of the woods just hours before, his condition had taken an unexpected turn for the worse. His brain had begun to swell, a statistical improbability, and he’d slipped back into a state of unconsciousness.
Hunter’s concern for his friend mutated into anger as he digested the news, which went down like razor blades. His instinct was to elicit any information about the investigation, curious to know whether the assigned detective was working any leads. He refrained from posing questions, reminding himself that Pam wasn’t in a frame of mind to address them. Instead, he resolved himself to getting some answers the minute he got out of there.
For the moment, though, he was stuck. Now he had to decide whether to reveal his theory about the Mafia’s involvement in his friend’s beating. He re-entered the room, which had been transformed into a war room of sorts. The enthusiastic sounds of Shakira had been replaced by the cacophonous, panicked chattering of Isaac and Frida. They were planted atop a blood-red Zapotec area rug as they hurried down lists and rolled telephone calls, presumably to anyone with even the remotest clue as to Ruben’s whereabouts. Harsh lamplight shrouded with intensifying dread.
“Maybe I can help,” volunteered Hunter, who for all intents and purposes was a ghost to them as they hammered away in their zone. “I think I might be able to help,” he practically shouted. Frida and Isaac took notice this time.
“If you want to help, you can start by getting the hell out of my brother’s house!” barked Frida, sounding like a rabid dog.
Isaac was clearly appalled. He immediately sprung into damage-control mode and reached for Frida’s shoulder. She retreated, letting an arm fly in self-defense. “Don’t
you
touch me,” she warned.
Isaac raised his hands in submission. “Take it easy, Frida. You’re way out of line.”
“Why should I take it easy? Both of us know damn well this lawyer couldn’t give a shit about Ruben.” She glared at him as she insulted him as if he weren’t there. “All he cares about is winning his stupid case. It’s just about the money for these people. And I refuse to let my brother be a pawn in their stupid little charade.”
“We can agree to disagree. And we can talk all you want about it
later
. But for now, the least we can do is hear Mr. Gray out,” reasoned Isaac. “If he can help…”
Hunter stood there awkwardly, searching for the right words. The truth was that Frida was partially right.
Maybe I’m too consumed with proving I can win this case.
“I probably should’ve told you both this when I first got here. One of my colleagues was attacked this morning, and I have reason to believe it’s connected to this case. I guess you could call it a warning shot.”
“There, I knew it.
He’s
the reason Ruben may be in trouble,” she interrupted. “Wake up.”
“It’s not his fault. He’s got a job to do. And from what I can see, he’s more than competent,” Isaac defended with a frustrated glare. He turned to Hunter, anxious to collaborate on a solution. “So what do we need to know, counselor? Are there any leads?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied with heartfelt sympathy.
“Me too,” chimed in Frida, as if she was giving a confession.
“Thanks.” Hunter made sure he made eye contact with Frida, wanting her to know her overreaction was already behind them both. That was what siblings do. And he’d be a hypocrite if he didn’t admit to that universal truth. He was still taking care of a drug addict for a sister when he knew deep down he should be giving her a heavy dose of tough love.
“There’s a detective who’s been assigned to the case, and I’m sure the police are conducting a thorough investigation.” Hunter couldn’t actually confirm anything was being done, but he wanted to reassure them.
Isaac listened intently. Frida looked dejected, the wind knocked out of her sails.
“As soon as I leave here, I plan on following up with the detective,” said Hunter.
“Was your colleague working on this case with you?”
“No, he wasn’t.”
Isaac stroked his goateed chin in thought. “That’s strange.”
“Agreed. And if you knew Andy, you’d know the guy’s incapable of making enemies.”
“Did they rob him?” She wasn’t about to abandon hope. “It could’ve been a random attack. The city’s had a few of those recently. Right?”
“It could’ve been, I suppose.”
Isaac knew that was only wishful thinking. “Any idea who these people are?”
“I have a hunch, but I couldn’t say for sure.”
Isaac’s Adam’s apple protruded as he swallowed, working up the courage to utter the dreaded words. “The Mafia.” Frida diverted her gaze in denial like a kid holding her breath as she passed a cemetery.
“It’s a distinct possibility.”
More like a sure thing.
“I guess it makes sense,” conceded Isaac rationally. “I hadn’t really thought about it until now. But Vito could easily be connected. I wouldn’t put it past him. And what better way to dispose of the city’s case than to handle it his way, outside of court? He’s clearly a man who doesn’t play by the rules. I think the sign speaks volumes about his character. Or rather, lack thereof.”
“But that still doesn’t explain why they would go after Mr. Gray’s friend,” whined Frida. “If he’s not involved in the case…”
“That’s wishful thinking. The way I see it, there are two clear possibilities. The first, clearly the least likely of the two, is that there was a mix-up and a message, if you will, sent to the wrong person. That’s conceivable, especially considering you and the victim practice at the same firm.”
“And what’s the second?” asked Hunter, genuinely curious.
“The second is what I fear the most. They’re terrorizing you.”
Isaac’s suspicions seemed more than well founded as Hunter played back the footage of his encounters with the Mafia in his mind’s eye. An ominous cell-phone ring jarred the threesome, interrupting an unintentionally long pause as Hunter’s world continued to close in on him. Hunter feared the worst.